The Death of Innocence
by Kryss LaBryn
Summary: In the dark of night, a perfect child was born... Oneoff. May disturb some viewers.


**"The Death of Innocence"**

_by Kryss LaBryn_

_As usual, I own nothing. Except the adults here… They're all mine._

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Pain.

Pain and a bunching, shifting, tensing of muscles never used before, a burning and straining and a pain too great for screaming, too great for more than exhausted grunts in the deep of the night.

Then a sudden slippery slide of flesh and blood, and with the newborn's first wail, the pain was blessedly over.

"Och, he's a bonny lad," said the midwife tenderly, gently wiping the tiny thing clean. "Such a bonny boy! And such bonny _black_ hair…"

The mother's eyes widened. "Let me see him!"

The midwife obligingly brought him near. "See?" she said, "Perfect in every way."

Tired green eyes stared down into the tiny face, miniature to one she never thought to have to see again.

"Such a bonny little cuckoo," crooned the midwife.

"My grandfather had black hair," the lady lied.

"Och, Lady, you forget;" she said gently, rocking the tiny form, "I know the truth! And once your husband sees him, so will he."

"We could—we could say that he died, that he was stillborn! No one would know; we could--"

"Lady!" The midwife's eyes widened in shock and outrage. "I am a good Christian woman! I'll take no part in such doings, and I'll not allow you to damn yourself with such, either! To talk of killing a wee babe as if you were drowning a kitten!"

"Very well! Very well. The child shall live. And if it does not, it will not be by my hand. But his fath—my husband must never see him."

"That might be hard to manage," said the midwife; "He's bound to want to see the boy!"

"We can… We'll tell him the child is deformed! That he's too hideous to see. We can make him wear a mask…"

"Well, that would prevent him from seeing the boy, it's true, but how can you speak of making the child wear a mask? And all for nothing! As well the child will know, as soon as he's old enough to look in a mirror… And Heaven only knows what will happen if his Lordship _does_ see him…"

The lady shifted uncomfortably. "Please, Tabitha, let me hold him? Let me hold my son."

Hesitantly, warily, Tabitha lowered the tiny swaddled form into her waiting arms. For a moment, mother and child regarded each other in silence, a kind of wonder on each face. Then, "Tabitha, I'm thirsty," said she, and Tabitha crossed the room to refill her glass.

Carefully, stiffly, the mother climbed as silently as she could out of the bloodied bed, and limped to the fireplace. A cauldron of clean hot water bubbled merrily over the flames, clean rags stacked neatly nearby, awaiting need.

With a swift, decisive motion, she grabbed a handful of cloth, dipped it into the boiling liquid, and pressed it to the infant's face.

At his first shriek Tabitha whirled around, then rushed to them. "What are you doing?" she sobbed, trying to tear the cloth away, to tear the screaming babe free, but his mother held him tight in a grip of iron.

"Let go, Tabitha!" she gasped, "Let go! Not yet, not 'til I'm sure…"

At last, when she was sure the damage would be permanent, she released the wailing child into Tabitha's frantic embrace. "Oh, my lad, my poor bonny lad," she soothed, rocking and patting as she swiftly made her way back to the pitcher of cold water to dip a soothing cloth. "My poor bonny wee boy…"

The entire right side of the poor child's face was bright red, puckered. The delicate skin would scar, of that Tabitha was certain. The poor, beautiful baby boy… "How could you," she whispered, glaring, barely daring to speak lest she scream, lest she strike… "How could you _do _that to him?"

"I did what I had to; you know that!" Her voice was calm, but wildness simmered beneath her gaze. "You know what he'd to me, if he ever found out, if he ever knew…"

Tabitha said nothing, but glared back. She knew, but still--! To do such a thing to an innocent babe, whatever its mother's crime!

The lady limped back to the bed, tearing the bloodied sheets off and hurling them to the floor before crawling weakly back in. "The babe was born deformed," she said weakly; "My husband is never to see it."

"I will not lie for you, my lady!"

"And now you don't have to. The child is deformed. Take it away."

Exhausted, she closed her eyes.

Tabitha gave his poor little cheek a few last tender wipes, then carefully composed herself before covering him gently with a fold of the blanket. She wanted to find the wet-nurse, and his Lordship was waiting outside…

He sprang eagerly to his feet as she opened the door. "Well? Is she all right?"

"She is resting," said Tabitha, but a weak cry from within the room summoned him to the bedside.

"You are all right?" he asked, pressing a tender kiss to her hand as his wife smiled at him wearily.

"I am; but darling, I am so sorry!"

"Sorry? Does the child not… not live?"

"He lives," said Tabitha stiffly.

"A son! Let me see him!"

He turned to take the child from her, but "No!" cried his wife; "No, you must not see him. He is… not whole."

"Not whole?" he frowned. "What game is this? Give him to me, Tabitha! Give me my son!"

"It is no game, my lord," said the midwife softly. "You must not see him."

"No," chimed in his wife, struggling to sit up, "You must not even try! Please, promise me," as he took her in his arms to help her to sit, "Promise me that you will never try to see him!" And she buried her face in her hands.

"How bad is it, Tabitha?" he asked sternly. His glance pleaded with her. "How… bad?"

Tabitha stared straight ahead, rocking the child gently, not meeting his eyes. "I tell you now, with utmost certainty, my lord: if you were ever to lay eyes on this child, you would not want to raise him."

He sighed, defeated, as he turned back to the woman sobbing quietly in his arms. "Shhh…" he soothed, "Never mind. We can try again, in a little while…" To Tabitha, he said simply, "Take the child to the wet-nurse, then."

"Aye, sir." She half-turned, then paused. "What's his name, then?" she asked.

"Name him what you will," and he turned from her in dismissal.

"Erik," she whispered to the small bundle as she carried him swiftly off through dim, chill corridors; "After my own poor wee mite. Your name is Erik."

The man the world knew as his father never did lay eyes on the child. And it was with quiet relief that his mother learned, some years later, that he'd run away.

That she'd never have to look at him again.

The reminder of her secret indiscretion.

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_A/N: This was suggested to me by a line I used in "Phantom of The Kissing Booth", a fairly tongue-in-cheek look at Gerik's days with the gypsies. It got me wondering: just why _is_ the rest of that Erik so perfect, why does his (admittedly less graphic than the stage version) disfigurement look so much like a burn, and what kind of a mother would reject this child? Leroux!Erik, my own favourite Phantom, has a disfigurement that affects his entire body: he looks like a corpse. _That _I can understand a mother rejecting, although, as a mother myself, I would hope that such a reaction would never occur to _me_, were any child of mine born less than perfect. But I could never understand why _Gerik _would have been so rejected, unless there was something more about him that she was reacting to... As always, please drop me a line and let me know what you think!_  



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